


I Want It All

by venoms



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Competition, Confident Katsuki Yuuri, Fanboy Katsuki Yuuri, I normally spell Victor with a C but I'm spelling it with a K in this, It comes in at some point, M/M, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Possessive Katsuki Yuuri, Rivalry, Vicchan is alive because I can't kill the dog, Victor is a fanboy, Victor is skating to Eros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venoms/pseuds/venoms
Summary: When Katsuki Yuuri misses the podium by half a point and finds himself in fourth place during the 2015 Grand Prix Final, he is ready to give up, but Yakov Feltsman sees something in him and offers to coach him the following season in Russia alongside his idol, Viktor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky, whose next season is his senior debut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello! Welcome to my first multi-chapter Yuri on Ice fanfic. σ(≧ε≦ｏ) My obsession with real figure skaters and Yuri on Ice has been combined into this fanfic. I am really excited for people to read it. If you enjoyed, please leave kudos and a comment. Thank you so much!**
> 
>  
> 
> **(Stress relief when stressed out about my creative writing major and my original fiction: write fanfiction, apparently.)**
> 
>  
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> **(Also, mark my words: I will find a way to include Viktor skating to If U Seek Amy by Britney Spears.)**

Placing fourth was objectively the worst.

When competing against Viktor Nikiforov, no one was _really_ competing for gold. He was too perfect, too unbeatable, too godly. So everyone fought tooth and nail for second instead. Placing second was also arguably terrible, if only because no one can ever be satisfied with second. Second meant _almost first_. There was a disappointment that came with second. Jean-Jacques Leroy had enjoyed silver for the entirety of two performances during the free skate, until Christophe Giacometti knocked him down to third.

Yuuri Katsuki lost to Leroy by half a point.

When the final scores appeared, Yuuri had been sitting in the crowd with his coach, counting points in his head. And then the scores came. And he lost. And he watched Giacometti and Leroy stand on the podium, below Viktor, with Viktor’s arms around them as the press snapped photos.

Bronze wasn’t too bad—at least it meant you were on the podium. But Yuuri wasn’t on the podium. He wasn’t, and he was bitter, filled with rage and spite and self-deprecation and resentment.

His coach, Celestino wrapped an arm around his shoulder as they left. Yuuri wanted to cheer for Viktor, but his crushing disappointment outweighed his excitement for his idol.

“It’s okay, Yuuri,” Celestino said. Yuuri shook. “Your scores were great. You beat your personal best in the short program.”

“That’s not good enough.” _I’m never good enough._

He shrugged his coach’s arm from his shoulders and bee-lined for the men’s bathroom. He locked himself in a stall, sat on the toilet, and poured his anger out of the corners of his eyes. Removing his glasses, he stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. The tears spilled and spilled and _spilled_ down his cheeks, burning the skin it spilled down and the backs of his hands as the tears dripped.

His phone buzzed angrily in his pocket. Without checking the caller ID, he answered.

It was his mother, as supportive as always, cooing sweet words into the speaker. The burning in Yuuri’s eyes worsened.

“You still made it all the way to the final,” his mother chimed positively.

He choked on his sobs. “But I lost . . .”

His coach, his best friends in the US and back home all knew what a sore loser he was. If it was Phichit or Yuuko here with him, they would think he was ridiculous for being upset. He had made it so far and he was angry with himself. They would call him a sore loser; maybe not right this second as he shook and sobbed on a toilet because he made it all the way to the Grand Prix Final to miss the podium, but later. They would talk about it together, if they were here, and maybe take him out for food that reminded him of home.

But they weren’t here, so he was allowed to feel sorry for himself.

“You still have the Japanese Nationals.”

“It’s not the same!” He grimaced when he realized he had yelled. “Mom, I’m sorry . . . I’m going back to Detroit for a couple weeks, but I’m coming home for winter break . . . and I guess I’ll come back for Nationals.”

“And when you’re home, I’ll make you a pork cutlet bowl. We all miss you—especially Vic-chan. He’s always sleeping on your bed at night.”

Yuuri smiled at the thought of his little poodle curled up on his bed. A tiny fluff ball on top of the blankets, surrounded by posters of the man he was named after. Vic-chan was cute, fluffy, hyperactive, and everything his namesake wasn’t. Victor was calm and collected and suave and graceful. Vic-chan, by contrast, was a bit of a ditz, but Yuuri loved him all the same.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, おかあさん.”

“See you soon.”

「またね！」And his mother hung up.

Yuuri dropped his arm, glaring at the lock screen through burning tears. The conversation with his mother had been a distraction at best. The emotions burst the the dam that was distraction and flooded back. He shoved the cell phone into his pocket and held his hand in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees as he recited breathing exercises Mari and Minako used to recite to calm his anxiety. A long, slow breath through his nose. _Iiiinnnnn_ , he recited mentally for three seconds, and then exhaled in the same time.

Inhale three seconds, exhale three seconds. Repeat.

Just as his breathing evened, there was loud thud that rattled the stall door. Yuuri squeaked and every muscle in his body jolted. He wiped his eyes on the ends of his sleeves before opening the door.

The junior gold medalist stood before him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his red, white, and blue Team Russia jacket.

“What’re you crying about, loser?”

Yuuri almost didn’t understand his English through the heavy accent. For once, his obsessive consumption of interviews of Viktor Nikiforov accustomed him to English in Russian accents, though Viktor’s wasn’t quite as thick as this boy’s, Yuri Plisetsky. Only fourteen. And only-fourteen Yuri Plisetsky scowled up at him, tapping leopard-print sneakers against the tiles, impatient, irritated. Like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, Yuuri shivered and became acutely aware of himself, of his red-rimmed eyes and the ghost of tear on his face. He tried to wipe them away, but his sleeve came back dry.

“Pathetic,” Plisetsky grumbled. He looked Yuuri up and down. Sizing him up. Yuuri grew annoyed by Yuri’s underestimation of him. “If you’re going to act like a baby, you should just retire.” He sneered. “My coach is looking for you.”

Yuri Plisetsky’s coach. AKA: Viktor Nikiforov’s coach. His unlimited knowledge of Viktor Nikiforov trivia, and from watching every single moment of Viktor in the kiss and cry at competitions (he had an entire Youtube playlist of cute Viktor Nikiforov moments in the kiss and cry), he knew who was looking for him. He didn’t know if he wanted a man like Yakov Feltsman searching for him. Not right after a competition.

“Okay,” Yuuri said, uncertain and still reeling from anxiety.

Yuri Plisetsky stalked off, kicking open the bathroom door. Yuuri followed close behind. He followed him down the hall to where skaters were being interviewed or talking to other skaters or their coaches. Flushed from shame but also from crying, Yuuri kept his head down, hoping Celestino wouldn’t notice him. If he did, Yuuri couldn’t tell.

Yuri Plisetsky turned on him suddenly, and Yuuri tripped over his feet and frowned.

“This is Yakov,” he said.

Yuuri looked at the man before him. Large. Balding. Scowling. “Uh, hello.” Yakov Feltsman had that sort of look that he couldn’t stare at for too long. He looked away, looked beyond him, like he didn’t when he didn’t know how to look someone in the eye. He stared over Yakov’s shoulder—and nearly hyperventilated.

Viktor fucking Nikiforov was being interviewed close by. Over Yuri Plisetsky and Yakov Feltsman, he couldn’t make out the interviewer’s questions or Viktor’s answers.

“Katsuki.” Yakov’s harsh tone drew him back into focus.

“Ah, yes?” Yuuri wrung his hands and smiled tentatively.

“Were you not listening?” Yakov frowned. “Well, I was saying . . . I saw you out there today. Your step sequences are great.” He paused, as if he had planned to say something else, but was willing himself not to say it. “I have a great record of molding skaters into champions. With work, you could easily end up on there with my skaters. If you wanted.”

Yuuri froze.

What?

He said just as much. “ _What?_ ”

“I’m offering to train you. In Russia.”

“I live in the States.”

“There are skaters who travel back and forth between their home country and their coach’s country, and their coach can come to see them, too. It’s not uncommon. We could work something out.”

Yakov wasn’t known for taking on skaters who didn’t represent Russia.

But this was Yakov Feltsman. Viktor Nikiforov’s coach—the coach of the men’s singles champion. He couldn’t say no to the offer. He couldn’t say anything to the offer. He just gaped.

“Are you sure?”

“The offer is there.”

For the first time, Yuuri glanced over at Plisetsky, whose brow dipped and his hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets. His hair was tangled, like long hair was wont to do. Viktor’s hair used to tangle and frizz after his programs, when he was younger and had longer hair. Yuuri used to watch his interviews and watch him in the kiss and cry on TV and wish he could be the one to brush his hair. (He also thought to grow his hair out, but his schools in Japan had strict dress codes.)

He looked at Yuri and Viktor and the rest of the Russian team hanging around for interviews. What if he didn’t fit in with them? Russia and Japan had almost nothing in common. The only thing Yuuri had in common with any of them was skating.

But he’d be an idiot to pass up this offer. He accepted it without hesitation. “Yes, yes, I’d love to.” He shook Yakov’s hand and Yuri Plisetsky muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes.

Yuuri exchanged numbers with Yakov. All of his embarrassment from earlier had vanished. Uncertainty for his future all of the sudden forced its way to the front of his mind.

Yakov Feltsman smiled a strange smile—it didn’t look right on his face—and said, “When we talk, we can work out the details.”

 

***

 

Coach Celestino all but dragged Yuuri to the banquet, hoping he would talk to sponsors. He didn’t talk to sponsors. He didn’t tell Celestino about Yakov. He was too nervous to talk to Viktor. Or the rest of Team Russia. Or his new coach. JJ tried to talk to him, but it resulted in him and his girlfriend gloating. So Yuuri drank.

And drank. And drank. And drank.

And drank. And drank. And drank.

And drank. And drank. And drank.

And drank. And drank. And drank.

And drank. And drank. And drank.

 

***

 

The day following the banquet, Yuuri, hungover and exhausted, went with his coach back to Detroit. He nursed a bottle of water and, when they landed, added jet lag to his list of pains. Still exhausted and now jet-lagged, but at least his hangover had faded by the time they arrived in Detroit. He dozed off on the cab ride to his dorm; he said goodbye to Celestino, and Phichit was waiting for him at the door, grinning wide and knowingly.

“I haven’t told Ciao Ciao yet,” he stated before Phichit had the chance to burst. If Yuuri wasn’t so jet-lagged, he would have been unable to contain his excitement about the news. As it was, he could hardly keep his eyes open or stay on his feet as he trudged across the room, dropping his backpack and suitcase at the end of the bed before flopping onto the mattress, face buried into the pillows.

He heard the smile in Phichit’s voice. “Did you talk to Viktor?”

“No.”

“What?” Phichit whined. “Why not?”

“I lost.”

“So what? You went to the Grand Prix Final and you’re _complaining_? You were at the same competition as him! _Please_ tell me you talked to him at the banquet.”

“Well . . . Uh . . .”

“Yuuuuri.”

“I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember?”

Yuuri pressed his face deeper into the pillow, wishing sleep would takeover and allow him to avoid the conversation entirely. “I think I drank too much.” If he rolled onto his back, he would see over a dozen posters of his idol on the wall on his side of the room. He didn’t want to be crushed by thoughts of what he could have said. But now that Phichit was talking about it, the what-ifs were spinning in his head.

Then again, he supposed it didn’t matter. He had accepted Yakov Feltman’s offer without considering the negatives, and he would be training alongside the man whose face covered his room from top to bottom after this season ended.

Seeming to follow his train of thought, Phichit laughed and said, “Whatever. You’ll see him when you move to Russia anyway. I guess learning all that Russian was useful after all, huh?”

In the early days of his obsession, he had taught himself Russian vocabulary and basic Russian grammar. Once in college, he took all of the Russian language classes they offered.

“Oh, I got it! Pretend not to know Russian and then ask Viktor to help you. It’ll be like out of a movie!”

Yuuri groaned and flipped onto his side, facing the window. From the window, he watched the students on campus walking around. Snow began to fall and cling to the concrete. The posters cluttered around the window stared back at him. As if it was really Viktor, live and in person, gazing at him like that, he flushed, and then instantly felt stupid for his reaction.

The anxiety of moving to Russia churned inside his stomach. He never handled change well. That was just part of his anxiety. During his first night in Detroit, he cried. On his first night in Sochi for the Grand Prix Final, he cried until his heart stopped beating so fast like it was trying to break out of his ribcage.

“What if this is a mistake?”

One thing he missed about Hasetsu: the hot springs.

More importantly, the second thing he missed: holding Vic-chan when the anxiety filled his lungs and suffocated him. His throat tightened and he hid beneath the blanket so Phichit wouldn’t notice.

Phichit noticed. He dragged Yuuri to sit upright and drew him into a crushing hug. He held Yuuri until Yuuri stopped shaking. Until he stopped choking on his own breath. Until his vision expanded and he wasn’t staring through a tiny tunnel clouded by static and blackness.

“You’ll do great in Russia, Yuuri,” Phichit cooed. “Besides, you still have a few months until the end of the season. We have to spend as much time together as possible—and then you have to go to Russia and woo Viktor and I’ll come to your wedding.”

“P-Phichit,” he squeaked. His face was red when he pulled away to look at his best friend. He smiled, and wasn’t shaking anymore but was drenched in cool sweat.

 

***

 

Yuuri watched recordings of the Russian Nationals most nights in his hotel room during his home country’s Nationals. At one point, he caught it every year on television at Yu-topia with his mother and Minako, but going to Japanese Nationals meant he didn’t have the chance to watch Viktor live. Viktor skated both programs flawlessly, and Yuuri loved both, but it was his free skate that Yuuri adored the most. In his own programs, he drew inspiration from Viktor; he wondered if Yakov noticed. He wondered if Viktor noticed. Probably not. Viktor likely didn’t even know who he was.

Plenty of men competed against Viktor during his senior division. He didn’t talk to anyone who didn’t go to the Olympics with him in 2010, or at least didn’t show up in photos online with anyone except them. Christophe Giacometti, Daisuke Takahashi, Stephane Lambiel. He showed up in photos with Mao Asada, too . . . and most of those he was known friends with already retired. People were expecting Viktor to retire soon, too.

He wouldn’t care about someone like Yuuri, and Yuuri had to beat him before he retired. Practicing in Russia, at Viktor’s home rink, was one thing. One thing he was more than excited about—ecstatic to the point of speechlessness—but wasn’t the same as competing against the man. His competitiveness wouldn’t rest until he, at the very least, placed on the podium next to Viktor Nikiforov.

Maybe it was a shit form of validation, but he craved it more than air.

Yuuri relaxed back on the hotel bed with his phone, still dressed in track pants and his black and blue competition jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. He watched Viktor’s free skate five times. The first time, he watched his face, twisted in longing or sadness or . . . Yuuri wasn’t quite sure what he saw there. It was not like Viktor Nikiforov to be sad. He googled the song for his free skate. Not too much information, considering Viktor commissioned every piece for his programs. But there were fans from Italy on blogs who wrote about the meaning of it.

The program took on a new meaning when he read the lyrics and watched it a fourth and fifth time. (The second time he watched it, he watched Viktor’s body. He stared a little too long at his butt, though there was no one here to call him out on it. The third time, his heart stammered because of the passion in Viktor’s movements. So beautiful.)

Viktor’s aria was about pain, about loss, and longing.

That was definitely longing he saw on Viktor’s face. Yuuri wondered if Viktor really was that lonely in person. He always seemed so happy in interviews.

 

***

 

Yuuri won gold at Nationals, then went home for the rest of winter break while he was in the country.

He took a short flight from Narita to Fukuoka, then a train down to Kyushu, to Hasetsu. Minako, his old ballet teacher, met him there. There were posters of him everywhere. Hasetsu’s hero and all that; the fame at home was partly why he loved Detroit. The only people who knew him there were figure skating obsessives and those he went to school with and those at his skating club. There was a sense of privacy in the US that he didn’t get in Japan.

Minako grinned ear-to-ear and swung a “Welcome Home” banner. “Yuuuuri!” she called in a sing-song voice.

Yuuri hid his face. “Minakoooo. Please don’t. I just want privacy.”

She pulled him in with an arm around his shoulders. “Congrats on gold! I’m so proud of my former student.”

“Thanks.” He still hadn’t told Celestino about his plans. He still needed to talk with Yakov about their plans, if Yakov would still take him. He would understand if Yuuri told him he’d been too busy with fall finals and then the Japanese championship to call. “I have something to tell you about,” he said to Minako.

“Did you get me Viktor’s number?”

“If I got Viktor’s number, it’d be for me,” he said, somewhat confident with the gold medal draped around his neck, though hidden beneath his coat. Minako would’ve been upset if he didn’t wear it. His parents loved to see him wear his medals whenever he came home. “But no.”

“Are you and that Thai boy finally dating?”

“What?” He nearly choked on his own surprise. They made it onto the next train to Hasetsu and sat together. “No, no. Uh, nothing like that! Yakov Feltsman offered to coach me.”

“Yakov Feltsman?” Minako eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Nikiforov’s coach? Plisetsky’s coach? Babicheva’s coach? _That_ Yakov Feltsman?” She gripped Yuuri’s coat by the collar. “Yuuri, are you being serious?”

He nodded.

“What did you say? Did you tell Celestino?”

“Not yet, and, well, I’m supposed to call Yakov and we’re going to talk out details.”

“Does this mean you’re moving to Russia?”

The suggestion made Yuuri blush.

Minako’s grip on his coat tightened. Her hand shook. “Yuuri, you’ll get to train with Viktor Nikiforov!”

A smile wormed its way across Yuuri’s lips and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it either. “It’s crazy, huh?”

“You need to go to Russia, Yuuri.”

“What about college?”

“You can go back, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You’ll get to train with some of the best skaters in competition now, and most importantly, _you’ll get to meet Viktor Nikiforov_.”

“I want to go,” he told her softly.

“You’d better work out those details you were talking about with Feltsman, then. Oh, and tell Celestino.”

“I will when I go back to Detroit.”

Despite the stares they received from people on the train, Minako hugged him tight. “I’m so proud of you.”

Yuuri couldn’t stop smiling. Even when they arrived at his family’s inn, there was a glow about him. Snow covered the ground from the snowfall the day before, but the pathways outside were shoveled. It would be a nice afternoon to take a dip in the hot springs when he had the chance. Minako pulled the gold medal out from beneath Yuuri’s coat to put it on display when his parents came out.

“Hiroko! Toshiya! Look who’s back!”

Yuuri’s mother rushed into the room, smiling wide. “Yuuri-chan,” she squeaked. “I’m so glad you’re back! How long are you staying?” She pulled him down into a hug, her arms around his neck. Yuuri bent awkwardly to accommodate.

“Uh, just a couple weeks. I have to be back on the 22nd.”

“I wish you could stay longer. Oh, we watched you at Nationals! Even the guests were watching. You were so lovely.” She clasped her hands together, then her brown eyes flickered down to the medal. “You should hang it up!”

“I will,” he said.

Padded, light footsteps and scratching against the floorboards averted his attention to the toy poodle bounding his way. He knelt for the poodle to jump into his arms. He pulled him to his chest, feeling the beating of his tail against Yuuri’s ribcage. “Vic-chan, I missed you so much,” he whispered.

Vic-chan licked his face.

“Toshiya’s making a pork cutlet bowl for you right now. Why don’t you let me hang your medal up with the rest and take your coat off?”

Yuuri let his mother take the medal from around his neck to place it with the others in a case. He had won plenty of medals during his junior career, and a respectable amount during his senior division. His parents liked to show off his success. Sometimes, he would overhear them talking about how proud they were to the guests. The local guests knew him well and watched his competitions on television. Those who weren’t local would know about him once they stayed for a night. His mother, especially, loved to brag.

He sat with Minako at a table and Toshiya brought them pork cutlet bowls. He laughed and sat with them.

“Congrats on gold, Yuuri.”

“Thank you.” He tried to eat slowly, but failed. When it came to pork cutlet bowls, he was one of Pavlov’s dogs and winning a competition was his trigger. He felt himself salivating at the thought of eating the dish for days. Now, he could. He wolfed it down like a starving man. Toshiya laughed. Minako ate at a normal pace.

Once he was full enough to slow down and his mother joined them, Yuuri sat up with his legs beneath himself. “So, when I was in Sochi, Yakov Feltsman—he’s Viktor Nikiforov’s coach—said he’d be willing to take me on as a student next season.” He spoke so quickly that he took a second to breathe. His lips tightened. “If I want, that is.”

Hiroko smiled. “Are things not working out with your coach in Detroit?”

“It’s not that.” Really, he wasn’t going to call Celestino a bad coach. “But, I don’t know. It’s _Viktor’s_ coach. I couldn’t say no to him.”

“Do what makes you happy, Yuuri,” said Toshiya. “Would you be moving to Russia, then?”

“I think so.”

“What about university?”

“I’ll finish the semester, and then try to start training for next season in the summer.”

“A good time to go to Russia, then. I’ve heard their winters are terrible.”

“I think . . . If . . . If I fail next season, then I’ll go back and finish school after. Taking a year off wouldn’t hurt. I just don’t want to tell Yakov no and regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Hiroko said. “We’ll support you.”

That was why Yuuri felt bad leaving his home for Detroit. His family. His friends. They had always supported his decisions: to start skating, to start skating competitively, to move to Detroit, and now to possibly move to Russia. Most parents would not be happy with this decision.

He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Because it was what he really needed to hear.

 

***

 

At the beginning of the new year, Yuuri called Yakov. Yuuri told him his desire to finish out the season with Celestino and the spring semester in Detroit. At first, Yuuri thought Yakov was gruff and bitter. But he was warming up to the man. Slowly. As usual, he struggled to talk to him on the phone. For two hours, he sat on his bed with his phone on speaker, with Vic-chan in his lap. Vic-chan hadn’t left him alone since he returned from Detroit; it would hurt to leave him at home until summer. When he moved to Russia, he would bring him with him. He couldn’t imagine leaving him alone again without knowing how long he’d be gone.

He stared for too long at the posters on his walls. He had others hanging in his dorm room in Detroit, but his main shrine still stayed in his bedroom at Yu-topia. He debated whether to bring them to Russia, for wherever he stayed. He’d had his poster collection for so long, whether living in Hasetsu or Detroit, that living longterm without Viktor’s face all over his walls might feel strange.

At last, Yuuri and Yakov agreed that he would come to St. Petersburg at the end of May, roughly enough time to get through finals, pack up, go back to Hasetsu, and pack up again. His heart raced as the phone call ended. Vic-chan whined in his lap when Yuuri stopped petting him.

“Sorry, boy,” Yuuri mumbled, and stroked Vic-chan’s head again. Vic-chan rested his head back onto Yuuri’s thigh. For awhile, Yuuri stayed in bed with Vic-chan and overthought about his decision when there was a soft knock at his door. “Come in.”

It was his sister, Mari. She’d dyed the ends of her hair blonde since last time he’d been home. She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms.

“So,” she drawled. “おかあさん told me you’re moving to Russia.” The way her tone lifted, it sounded like a question.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to bring Vic-chan with me.”

“You might as well. He’s always sleeping in your room, and whines when he misses you.”

Yuuri held Vic-chan closer as consolation.

“Congrats on winning Nationals.”

“Thanks.”

“When are you leaving for Russia?”

“After the semester ends. I’ll probably be back here for a week, and then fly over.”

Mari nodded. “Maybe you should pack now, so that you won’t have to rush later.”

Yuuri agreed. They went through his closet and desk and sat out what he planned to take. He left the posters up. He would take them down the night before his flight. It’d be odd to sleep with his walls so naked.

 

***

 

In Detroit, Phichit took more selfies with Yuuri than usual.

Yuuri told Celestino about Yakov in February during practice; Celestino took the news strangely well. Yuuri had shoved his hands in his pockets and couldn’t look his coach in the eye when he first tried to tell him, but Celestino’s encouragement soothed him. After his last exam during finals week, Phichit took him out to a bar and they did shots.

“It’s your going away party,” Phichit told him. “And celebration for making it through the semester and for you finally getting to fuck Viktor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri was glad he’d downed four shots before Phichit said that. “P-Phichit. I’m not—that’s not going to happen.”

“Oh, it’ll happen.” He spoke with such certainty that Yuuri worried his best friend could see the future or maybe was just crazy.

“Viktor wouldn’t like someone like me.”

“‘Someone like me’? Yuuri, have you seen yourself?”

“Phichit . . .”

“I’m serious. Go to Russia and seduce your idol. All of this happening is fate. You’re going to go to St. Petersburg and train with the god of skating and make him love you.”

An unconvinced “uh-huh.” Yuuri did another shot.

 

***

 

Russia didn’t require people to quarantine their pets. When he arrived at Pulkuvo, he just had to take Vic-chan to the veterinary center within the airport. Yakov met him at the arrival gate and helped him with his bags and finding the center. Yuuri got his papers for Vic-chan.

Yakov looked down at the toy poodle and grunted in a thick accent: “Another poodle. What is it with skaters and poodles? Mao had Aero, Viktor has Makkachin . . . What’s this one’s name? It’s so small.”

“He’s a toy poodle.” Yuuri hugged Vic-chan to his chest. The small poodle licked his jaw. “His name—it’s, uh . . . Vic-chan.”

Yakov rolled his eyes, a hint of disgust played on his frown. “ _Of course_ it is. I knew you’re a fan of Viktor, but if you let that interfere—”

“I won’t!”

“Good. I’m helping with your accommodations, but I’m not paying for dog food, and Lilia isn’t much of a dog person.”

“That’s fine. He likes to stay in my room, most of the time.”

“Alright. Anyway, you’ll be staying in the city with Lilia and me, since you presumably don’t know Russian, and you’ve spent most of your money on the coaching fees. I’m staying here with Lilia because she is training Yuri Plisetsky.”

Yuuri bowed halfway. “Thank you so much.” But he worried about staying in the same building as Yuri Plisetsky. The boy hadn’t seemed to like him the last time they met.

Yakov grunted again, pulling along Yuuri’s suitcase as they headed through the airport to the exit. There was a cab waiting for them. “I think Lilia will like you,” Yakov said. “You’re quiet, and you don’t talk back.” Once inside the cab, he added: “Don’t let Yuri and Viktor’s rebellious attitudes rub off on you.”

Yuuri almost laughed, thinking about Viktor being rebellious. Vic-chan whined. Yuuri held him for comfort. He felt rebellious already for not telling Yakov that he knew Russian when he had the chance. His excitement overpowered his anxiety, however, and his legs bounced from anticipation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I'm the piece of shit finally updating her fic with only 800 words. I think the author note might be the same length as the chapter.
> 
> Something of an explanation:
> 
> I graduated with my creative writing degree last month, and honestly in the past year or so I've just entirely lost my drive to write. I'm coming back to this fic hoping it'll inspire me to work once again on my original fiction.
> 
> During school, updating this fic felt more like a chore than something fun, because I was working on so much writing for my classes.
> 
> Since I'm in such a rut while working on revisions for my current novel, I'll try uploading short chapters of this fic at least once a week. Possibly more, since I'm currently unemployed, looking for a job, and have spent my days sleeping off my depression, sewing my Viktor cosplay, and forcing myself through novel revisions.
> 
> Thank you for your patience. I appreciate all of the kudos and comments people have left since last April. This chapter is shorter than the first, but it'll help me update quicker by making them short.
> 
> Chapter 2 and 3 were supposed to be the same, but I wanted to give y'all material after waiting so long.
> 
> Yuuri and Viktor will meet next chapter! And Yuuri will OFFICIALLY meet Yurio and Lillia. I look forward to Lillia, personally. But for now, have some of Yuuri's first night in St. Petersburg. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> All right, enough of my bitching about my life. I will get chapter 3 up as soon as it's finished.

Yuuri unpacked in his new room while Yuri Plisetsky was still at the rink with Lillia; this room was bigger than its Hasetsu counterpart. He left to find Yakov on the couch, only once, to ask for pins—no tape. Tape would ruin the posters worse than pins. Then, he locked himself inside his new bedroom again and hung up his posters. That alone was enough to calm his nerves. It was like a routine, by now. Something familiar.

By the time he was finished unpacking his clothes and had his suitcases shoved into the closet, he heard Yuri and Lillia come back. Yuri Plisetsky was loud. He stayed in his bedroom and switched out his Japanese SIM card for a Russian one so that he could text. He bought a pre-paid SIM with data at the airport earlier.

He texted Mari first, then his mother, to tell them that he was in Russia now. He said nothing more because he didn’t want to worry them.

He texted Phichit:

_In St. Petersburg. I can’t believe it._

Phichit demanded pictures, or it didn’t happen.

Yuuri snapped a few of the posters on his wall before turning the camera on himself, sitting on his bed with his legs pulled to his chest. His shoulders pressed against the windows; outside, the overcast sky was white. Last year in Sochi, it had been blue.

_Have you met Viktor?????_

_Tomorrow. Rn I'm at Lillia's with Yakov ... YURI PLISETSKY IS HERE. OH MY GOD._

_Why are you scared of the Russian punk?? He’s like ... 12._

Yuuri’s stomach growled. He didn’t have it in him to come out and ask for food. There was still the unfamiliarity of a new place, and the awkwardness that came with sharing a house with new people. So he lay in bed, texting Phichit.

At some point, he fell asleep. The jetlag hit him like a train. When he woke up, it was dark, with the exception of the moonlight and streetlights that pooled in through the window. The curtains were drawn. If his stomach was growling before, it was lacerating through his skin lining now trying to break free.

Even though it was May, the house was cold as he padded down the halls into the kitchen. Yakov had given him a short, straight-to-the-point tour earlier, so he found it easily. The kitchen was here; the bathroom was there . . . Yakov Feltsman wasn’t a man of many words unless he was criticizing you.

This being his first night—what time was it? Still before midnight? Early morning?—Yuuri felt uneasy going through the refrigerator without permission. He’d missed dinner, and they hadn’t woken him. His eyes roamed over the contents, wondering what to eat. He picked up a glass bowl from the middle shelf experimentally, relieved to see his name scrawled in black marker along the aluminum foil not Latin letter nor Cyrillic, but kanji.

「勇利」

Mr. Feltsman didn’t know kanji, and Yuuri highly doubted Lillia or Yuri did either. He peeled back the crinkly foil, the sound deafening in the silence of the night, the only noise to combat it being the distant whizzing of cars. Briefly he hoped his hungered rummaging didn’t wake anyone, but that train of thought ceased.

The food was something Yuuri only recognized from his extensive studying of Russian culture. His degree from Wayne State back in Detroit was in Slavic Studies. His concentration was in Russian, which included primarily language courses but cultural ones as well. His nineteenth-century Russian literature professor insisted upon an end-of-semester party, where they each learned a Russian recipe, cooked it, and brought it in for the class. There were six people in the class. One brought this.  
Pirozhki.

He tossed two onto a plate from the cabinet and put it in the microwave for two minutes. Meanwhile, he wrapped the foil back onto the bowl and put it away, with enough time to stop the microwave before it beeped.

Unsure of the house rules about eating outside of the kitchen, Yuuri escaped to his still unfamiliar bedroom with the hot plate of fried buns. Inside the room, Vic-chan’s tail thumped against the mattress.

Yuuri flopped onto the bed, ignoring the way it creaked under his sudden weight, and burned his tongue on too-hot pirozhki. But the taste was unmistakable—while pirozhki were otherwise filled with meat, vegetables, or mashed potatoes, this taste burst in his mouth upon first bite, when the burn subsided.

He pulled the bun from his mouth, eyeing the rice, pork, and egg inside.

It was katsudon, albeit it tasted like microwaved katsudon, and the egg wasn't quite right.

Still, it reminded him of home.

Yuuri fought against the smile cracking his lips in half as he devoured the buns.

Vic-chan. His hoard of Viktor Nikiforov merch. And now katsudon. Everything was just like home. He couldn't wait for morning, when training began.


End file.
